


Reunited

by mrsprobie



Category: Criminal Minds, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt Spencer Reid, Long-Distance Relationship, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Percy Weasley is a Dork, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsprobie/pseuds/mrsprobie
Summary: The team gets a bit of a shock when Reid is shot and they call his next of kin from the hospital.





	1. 2008: Stafford Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published on FFN in 2011. I will be adding content, mostly prequel chapters. It is unlikely that there will be multiple POVs in one chapter beyond the first one.

"The fact of the matter is that there is absolutely- what is it, Dennis? I'm in a meeting." Hermione frowned. Dennis Creevey, her assistant of several years, was not usually one to interrupt.

"I know; I scheduled it." He wasn't wrong. "There's an emergency with a Mr. Spencer Reid, and he has you listed as his next of- where are you going, boss lady?" His first day, that little rascal had called her "boss," and had been completely serious, but now he only said it to pick on her.

Hermione rushed out of the conference room and back into her office, searching for her mobile phone - the call had to have come on my mobile, the Ministry didn't have phones - with no success. She felt around on her desk, shuffled and flipped papers, and slammed drawers open and closed until she felt a light hand on her shoulder. She wheeled around, mouth open and ready to go off, and Dennis handed her the mobile phone.

 _They're still on the line_ , he mouthed. She nodded.

 _Thank you,_  she mouthed back. Holding the phone gently to her head, hand shaking slightly, she said, "Hermione Granger speaking, how may I help you?" It was her telephone voice, which she had put special effort into developing over the years. Warm and polite, with a firm undertone regardless of the situation.

"This is Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner with the FBI. Are you the next of kin of Dr. Spencer Reid?" Ah, yes, she'd heard of Agent Hotchner before from Spencer. His ornery but well-meaning boss. Someone who should  _not_ be calling her.

"Yes," she said stiffly, "he's my husband." Dennis turned quickly in disbelief, knocking over the stack of parchment brochures he had previously been attempting to reorganize.

* * *

 

"I'll be there as soon as possible," Hermione Granger said. Her voice, though initially firm, had grown less so over the course of our conversation. A click and then silence told me she had hung up, and Aaron Hotcher snapped his cell shut.

"That the right girl?" Morgan asked, doubtful even though he had heard his boss's side of the conversation. That she had a UK-formatted number had thrown them all.

"Yes, it was the right girl." How had none of them known Reid was married? It was unnerving. _Hermione Granger must be one hell of a woman, to be married to Reid,_ Hotch thought.  _To be_ secretly _married to Reid._  

"How is she related to him?" Prentiss asked, brows raised. The whole team had been curious as to which of Reid's relatives was living in Britain.

"She's his wife." It got exactly the reaction Hotch had expected, exactly the reaction he'd had inside. "They've been married since 2001."

"Reid's been married for seven years? How did we..." There was no need for Prentiss to finish her question. They were all wondering the same thing.

"Well," Morgan said, "it explains why Reid never goes on any dates. If she's been living overseas this entire time, though, he is one hell of a faithful guy."

A nurse stuck her head out a set of double doors. "Agents?" All heads swiveled in her direction. "Dr. Reid is out of surgery and stable. You can see him now, but he's still a little out of it." We didn't care; we all stood and rushed to follow her to his (private) room. Once inside, with the others crowded around Reid - who was still groggy from the anesthetics, just as the nurse had said - she pulled Hotch to the side so his back was to Reid. "Agent Hotchner, I have a bit of paperwork-"

"His wife is on her way," he said. "Does it have to be filed before tomorrow?" She shook her head. "Then I'll let her- I'm sorry," Hotch said more loudly, peering over the nurse's shoulder. She spun around to face an intruder. "Who are you?"

The visitor, a frazzled-looking young woman who now had the attention of everyone in the room, stood on the tip-toes of her patent leather flats in order to get a better look at Reid. "I'm Hermione Granger. We spoke on the phone, I believe." She cast a glance at me, then continued to peer through the group of agents at Reid. "May I see my husband, please?"

"Hermione?" Reid called faintly from his bed. "'S that you?"

Pushing past the nurse and Hotch, and squeezing past the hospital bed to get to Reid's other, less crowded, side, Hermione Granger said, "Yes, Spencer. It's me; I'm here." She knelt down to stroke his cheek, and his hand found its way into hers. "I'm here."

"I missed you at Christmas," he said quietly, oblivious to the looks the couple was receiving from the rest of the team - indeed, oblivious to the rest of the room entirely. "Did you get your present?"

She nodded, smiling, still stroking his hand. "It was beautiful. And did you get yours? The mail in and out of the Ministry has been iffy, but it's better than..." Hermione Granger glanced over to the team, an action that seemed to bring Reid back to the present. "Well, you know."

Reid looked about himself, as though startled. "Oh, Hermione, you need to be introduced!" He repositioned himself to face the rest of the room, hand on hers all the while.


	2. 1997: University of St. Andrews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1997. Hermione Granger and Spencer Reid meet for the first time.

Hermione handed the man at the door her ticket, and he beamed and gave her a brochure. _Professor Daniel Tseng, Quantum Fluids_ , it read. _19 July 1997, University of St. Andrews_. It was a day she should have been sharing with her parents. Instead, she was here in Scotland, thinking of them, and they were in Australia, without a clue that she existed. She had always been interested in science, something nurtured by her parents since childhood. As a little girl, she'd been amazed by it, how men in white coats could turn a moldy piece of bread into medicine. After learning about magic, she found herself trying to reconcile the two.

Her dad had bought the tickets on a whim, a few months before. At the time, Hermione had been excited - her parents never failed to offer unique perspectives on the science behind magic. After all, while Hermione was being trained to approach questions from a magical theory perspective, her parents remained grounded firmly in science: the laws of physics, and so on.

She forced herself back into the present. The last day had been spent crying, and it wouldn't do for the pattern to continue, not in the middle of a St. Andrews at least. She let her mind wander as her eyes did. The crowd was largely in its mid- to late-twenties, and she assumed it was made up of a blend of doctoral candidates and older undergrads, with only a few outliers such as herself.

The most eye-catching outlier was a tall, thin boy about her age. He was also alone, his posture betraying his discomfort. She caught his eye and looked away quickly, her face heating up and her heart fluttering. He was quite pretty, his high cheekbones and lithe frame reminding her of the male half-Veelas she had met during her fourth year. He was decidedly Muggle, though, with his dark coloring, not to mention the pager on his belt. She could tell herself that he was no good for her, but she knew that really, she would be no good for him.

Hermione found herself, not the first time, wishing that she could be a normal girl, or at least a Muggle girl. She wanted to pine after a cute swotty boy, and she wanted her mum there to tease her for it. If wishes were Galleons, she supposed she'd have all of Gringotts. She needed to focus on the search and battle ahead. Her mother would remember someday that she had a daughter, Hermione would ensure that.

But this wasn't the time to focus on that. Hermione shook herself out of it. The head of the physics department was walking onstage, to polite applause. She clapped gently, not taking her eyes off the presenters again until the lecture was over. The tickets hadn't been cheap, and she was determined to get her parents' money's worth - for all three of them.

After the lecture, Hermione joined the queue to speak to Dr. Tseng. She had several questions about the partial charges - _this would be such a good topic for a Transfiguration thesis in a few years_ \- but almost forgot them altogether when she realized that she was standing behind the waifish boy from before. She met his eyes again and gave an awkward smile and a nod; he returned each with his own. This time he broke the eye contact, his cheeks tinged pink while he looked anywhere but at her.

Several minutes later, Hermione was listening very closely as the boy asked his question and Dr. Tseng answered with enthusiasm. It was a very technical question - Hermione knew what a superfluid was, but the boy made a jump to "fermions" that the professor could follow but she could not. She resolved to try to find it in the literature later.

The boy and the professor spoke for another short moment, and then the boy shook his hand, thanking him profusely. It was strange that he should look most at ease speaking to a professor so many years his senior. Hermione put on a smile and stepped forward to the professor, hand outreached -

The room shook.

The door exploded inward, throwing the lingering group in the room against the far wall or onto their backs. The other lingering attendees had been too close to the door, Hermione realized sickly, and their chests were no longer moving. Dr. Tseng and the boy were still conscious, having been on the luckier side of the room, with her.

"A bomb?" the boy murmured in wonder. He grimaced as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his weight still mostly on his back against the concrete floor.

Hermione knew better than to hope it was a bomb.

She sat up slowly, not wanting to exacerbate any injuries. She slipped a hand to the back of her right leg and down into her combat boot, wrapped her fingers around her wand, and tried not to panic. She knew it wasn't working. The chances were _so low_ of her being caught in a random attack. She was being targeted, and because of it, these Muggles were in danger. Some of them were probably already dead, and others were going to get hurt because of her. Unless she could help them.

She looked up, forming an exit strategy, and suddenly there was another flash of light, this one sickly green.

A man in a mask was holding out his hand, wand outreached, and Dr. Tseng was dead on the floor. She counted herself very lucky that he was distracted as she stunned him. She pulled herself to her feet and dragged herself over to him, then grimaced as she kicked the wand out of his stiff hand. Thinking better of it, she picked it up off the floor and stashed it in the beaded purse she had taken to carrying everywhere.

She followed her first instinct, which was to alert the Order. Hermione cast the Patronus spell, focusing all of her being on a memory of her mother in a bookstore, and was relieved when her familiar otter appeared. "I'm in the physics building lower lecture hall at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. I have incapacitated a Death Eater." Her eyes slid over to the man on the floor, then back to the silvery animal before her. "I don't know if there is backup on the way for him. I can only assume that I was targeted. At least four Muggles are dead."

She sent the Patronus to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the first and most authoritative Order member she thought of in this post-Dumbledore world. After a moment's thought, she cast another and sent the same message to Remus.

As she tried to think of who next to summon, Hermione noticed the Muggle boy shaking in front of her, his jaw dropped and his brown eyes wide and afraid. They would have to wipe his memory. She cringed at the thought - a mind was a fragile thing, and his was clearly something special. And, yes, she could admit to herself, she was wrought with guilt over what she had done to her own parents. She had wept only the night before, imagining trying to replace their memories and finding them shells of their former selves, irreparable, forever lost. _At least Neville's parents weren't his own fault._

In another split second decision - she seemed to be good at them today - she offered the sitting boy her hand. He took it immediately, and she pulled him up and to her. She felt a twinge of pity for his stomach before Apparating to the church she had sat in that morning. She had come to St. Andrews early in the morning seeking some kind of penance; she now wondered if the existence of a god at all had been a trick of the morning golden-hour light.

She turned to him, venting her frustration in her words: "You saw _nothing_ ," she said fiercely. "You will never tell anyone what you saw. There will be no paper published, there will be no academic discussion, there will be no thinly veiled fantasy literature, there will be _nothing_." Her chest felt heavy, and she realized she was panting.

The boy was silent for a moment. "I-"

"The people I called for help would wipe your memory of it all," she said, needing him to know exactly how important it was that he keep this to himself. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone else, anyone at all, I will hunt you down and wipe your memory yourself."

He cocked his head, oddly innocent for the grime covering him and the bruises forming. "Why haven't you done it already?" His accent was American, she noted dimly.

She bit her lip, unsure how much to share. "You're clearly very intelligent." To his credit, he didn't blush, although he did move his gaze to the stained glass behind her. "Memory wipes are difficult, and they have the potential to… negatively affect the mind. I don't want another one on my conscience," she said weakly. "But if you cause any trouble, I will not hesitate to find you, and I will do it." Even to her own ears she sounded less fierce now, more broken.

"Why did he kill Dr. Tseng?" was all he asked. His mind was clearly working at double speed, taking in the terminology she was using, trying to justify what he'd seen and how it could have happened.

"He's a terrorist," she said shortly. "Some people who can do what we can do - people who can do magic - believe in their superiority over people like you, Muggles, who can't do magic. In the worst cases, this extends to people like me, who can do magic but have parents who can't." She paused, letting him digest this much. "I'm apparently a bigger target than I expected. If I'd known that -" she choked up, but closed her eyes and swallowed the panic. "If I'd known they would kill the people around me, I never would have gone in public. I'm going to be on the run now. No one else is going to die like this."

She wasn't sure if she was promising him or herself.

"I'm going back," she said, "and unless you want your memory wiped, I'm leaving you here."

"I, I'd prefer to stay here please," he said. He looked shaken and lost, exactly as though his entire worldview had changed in a matter of minutes.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to just Apparate away. With a wave of her wand, she conjured a piece of paper and a pen, and she scribbled out from memory the phone number for Kingsley's desk in the Muggle Ministry. "This is your lifeline," she said. "One of my allies works for the Muggle government. This number connects you to him. Call it in six months or if there's an emergency. _Don't_ call it for any other reason," she warned.

She crumpled it into one of his hands, and he closed a fist around it, holding it tight. "Is an emergency something like this?"

"Exactly like this," she confirmed. She couldn't help but ask him, "What's your name?"

"Spencer Reid," he said. There was a flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes, and he asked, "What's yours?"

"Hermione Granger. Just - stay safe. Good luck," she told him, and her breath hitched when he nodded. In another world, she thought, this is where she would have kissed him. Instead, she nodded jerkily and said, "I've got to go." And she Apparated away, the strange feeling not leaving the pit of her belly.

Several members of the Order were already there, repairing structural damage or further binding the Death Eater on the floor. At the crack of Apparation, they'd all pulled wands on the intruder. She knew they had no proof that she was herself, knew not to take it personally.

"What did you try to buy Sirius Black for Christmas last year?" Remus demanded.

"A bedazzled muzzle." It was possibly the first time in her life she'd said those words, in that order, without even smiling. She turned to Kingsley: "What kind of tea did you bring me from your visit to China?"

Kingsley _did_ give a small smile, and his wand lowered slightly. "You didn't get tea, you got instant coffee with the creamer and sweetener already mixed in. Where did you go after the attack?"

She had never been a good liar, but she hoped they would write off any of her nerves as having survived an encounter with a Death Eater. As far as they knew, she was the only survivor. "I was worried there would be others around the campus, perhaps specifically in this building if they knew I'd be here." Her head ducked down in faux shame. "I stunned him and took his wand, hoping that would be enough to hold him while I checked around."

"That was very unwise, Hermione," Remus said. "In times like these, you need to wait for a partner at least." She swayed uncertainly on her feet, and he noticed. "Do you want me to take you home?" She shook her head, and he seemed to remember what she had done. "Sh- do you want to go to the Burrow?" She nodded shakily, and he darted over to her, catching her as she stumbled trying to take a step. "All right, you're clearly a ball of nerves, let's get you out of here."

He Apparated away from St. Andrews, and she was dimly grateful that she had wished the boy well. Spencer Reid.

The Burrow was busy, and occasionally her mind would be taken away from Spencer Reid, but it always found its way back. He was her new favorite topic. She found herself wondering what he was doing, where he was from - _where in America?_ \- and whether he had liked Scotland. She hoped he was doing well, after the death of such a renowned person in what was clearly his field of interest.

And, of course, the pool of desire in the bottom of her belly never left either.


	3. 1998: The Burrow

With the war over, the Burrow had returned (if a bit more heavily spelled against attack) to being a proper family home, complete with large Sunday dinners and elven wine shared among friends. It wasn't quite the loud, carefree place it had once been, but it was in recovery as much as the people living in it were. After structural repairs and some rearranging of bedrooms, it was a hideout for the Weasleys and friends, for many members of the Order, from both positive and negative attention from the public.

It had been a given that it was the perfect place to hold Harry Potter's eighteenth birthday party.

It wasn't a raucous affair, but there was Butterbeer and treacle tart and a thousand other sweet things that Mrs. Weasley pushed at anyone who glanced at her. There was even a four-layer chocolate cake courtesy of Hagrid. It was quite ugly - a sticky chocolate, with green frosting proclaiming  _Happy Birthday Harry_  - but Harry loved it, hugging Hagrid's middle as tight as he could, considering he couldn't wrap his arms all the way around.

Having been subjected to Hagrid's baking skills more than once in the seven years she'd known him, Hermione had opted for the treacle tart instead.

It was a relatively quiet afternoon, only two grief-filled months after the final battle at Hogwarts; the house was full of love but not as rambunctious as in the past. That didn't stop people from singing  _Happy birthday to you_  so loudly that Teddy started crying, and it didn't stop Harry and the Weasley boys from pulling faces at the baby to try to get him to laugh instead.

Hermione hardly noticed when Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived nearly an hour after the party had started. He probably would have escaped her notice at all if he hadn't moved immediately towards her after saying a quick hello to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. She had been talking to Percy about the rebuilding efforts in Ministry departments that had been more corrupted, but they both paused when Kingsley coughed quietly.

"May I have a word in private?" he asked Hermione.

She excused herself from Percy and went with Kingsley out into the backyard. They made it halfway to the fence when he decided not to waste any more time: "Why is there a Muggle in my office asking for you?"

Her jaw dropped. "A Muggle?" She wracked her brain for the young man's name. "Spencer Reid?"

Kingsley gave a terse nod. "He said you would know him." He crossed his arms and looked down at Hermione. She hadn't felt quite so small in months. "What is this about?"

"He's a childhood friend," she said quickly. She painted the picture that he'd always known about her magic, since before she knew he wasn't supposed to know - that he was worried about her and that she had given his office as a rendezvous point after the war.

She knew she had never been a very good liar. It was driven home when Kingsley snorted. "I'd be more inclined to believe you if this kid was from the right country."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly. The July air hung heavy between them for a moment, the only sound the soft screeching of one garden gnome at another. (George and Ginny must have kept busy the last few weeks teaching them more swears.) "I'd like to go to my friend, please."

If Kingsley was surprised at her holding onto the lie, he didn't show it. Instead he just said, "Okay," and started walking back to the house.

They tried, but there was no hope of leaving without anyone noticing.

"It's just business," Kingsley said.

Mrs. Weasley was having none of it. "It's Harry's  _birth_ day!" Her hands were on her hips, and Hermione knew there was no easy way out now.

"Kingsley was contacted by a Muggle friend of mine," Hermione explained, calm under the gaze of just about everyone in the Burrow's living room. "He knew about my magic before Hogwarts, and I told him to stay safe, but  _not_  try to contact me when…" She shook herself, pretending to overcome some deep emotion. "He's come back to the country, I suppose, to let me know he's safe. I just need to go talk to him, and then we'll come right back."

The group disbursed and the room quickly filled with murmurs, some of disapproval, some of relief. Hermione was holding out hope on a clean escape until she spotted Mrs. Weasley making her way over to her and Kingsley, a small but wobbly smile on the woman's round face.

She was looking better than she had the first few weeks after Fred's passing, but her eyes were still red-rimmed more often than not, and today was no different. "Kingsley," Molly began, and it pained Hermione a little to hear such a strong woman's voice waver. "I understand it isn't exactly typical, but if Hermione's friend would be comfortable visiting with us, would you allow it?" Hermione was ready to tell her that Spencer wouldn't be visiting, and Kingsley seemed ready to tell her that it could not happen, but she went on: "It could be good for both of us - for this young man and for all of us, I mean." She was visibly tearing up. "He can meet other people close to Hermione, and the rest of us might benefit from being around someone less… affected," she decided.

"A lighter presence," Kingsley said. Hermione realized with an internal groan that he was going to give in. Spencer Reid was going to visit the Burrow, undercover as one of her childhood friends. "Since he already knows about magic," Kingsley added, sounding almost smug, "I wouldn't find any harm in him visiting. Now, Hermione, let's go get your  _friend_  from my office."

She pasted a large smile onto her face. "Let's!"

After a warm hug from Mrs. Weasley - and a short exchange of glances with the boys, who had no idea what was going on but looked to know something was  _off_  - they were out the Burrow and headed to the edge of the protective enchantments.

Near the edge of the property line, Kingsley held out an arm for her to stop walking. He seemed to channel Albus Dumbledore for a moment, his expression grave and almost commanding her to tell the truth. "How do you know this Muggle, really?"

It was a good thing Kingsley wasn't Albus Dumbledore, or she'd have had a harder time lying to him. "As I said, he's an old friend." She glanced to the familiar edge of the property, marked by a line of red bricks. "I think we should be getting to him, don't you? He's been sitting alone in your office for a rather long time," she reminded him.

Kingsley rolled his eyes. "Susan's been keeping an eye on him. I'll Side-Along you, so we can go directly to my office."

She held his arm through his thick robe, and after a familiar, tube-like ride, they were in his office.

Their arrival prompted a small crash as Spencer Reid - now taller but even reedier than before - jumped back and into a table of what Hermione would guess were upgraded Sneakoscopes. The devices fell to the floor, thankfully not spinning, and Hermione remembered that this was supposed to be her beloved childhood friend, and perhaps she should be seeming a little excited to see him.

She bounded over to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, her face pressed into his sweater (which did smell very nice, like wool and old books and a hint of coffee). She was dimly aware of Susan Bones watching them while she put all the Sneakoscopes back in their proper places. "My oldest friend, it's so good to see you again," she whispered. "Act like it," she added in his ear. He stiffened, but wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"I'm glad you made it out okay," he said, and he even sounded genuine about it. He pulled out of the hug almost gracefully and held her at arms' length. "I came here before, when you told me to, but things seemed off. I figured there was no harm in waiting an extra while."

"I'm glad you didn't go inside." She swallowed. His hands were still on her upper arms, and they were still staring directly into each other's eyes. "You might have died."

"And all your negotiating would have been for nothing," he added quietly.

Kingsley coughed, and the two separated, Spencer Reid even taking a step back from her. "I trust that you can Apparate him back to the Burrow when you're ready, Hermione? You should be able to leave directly from the office. I'll have Arthur lift any repellant charms shortly."

She nodded. After reminding her that "We  _will_  be having a conversation about this," he disappeared with another loud  _crack_. (Fortunately, Spencer didn't jump into any more tables this time.) Susan had left after replacing the Sneakoscopes, and so they were alone in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office. Hermione hoped Spencer had some concept of how much trust was being placed in them in that moment.

She worked quickly, giving brief explanations of where they were going ("It's my friend's birthday, and we're having a get-together at another friend's family's home"), who would be there ("Listen, these people were all involved in the war, and it was difficult"), and what he would see ("Half-giant, birthday cake, maybe some foul-mouthed garden gnomes, and a lot of wand-waving and redheads"). She explained that she was something of a war hero at the moment, and that these were the only people treating her normally - because they were going through the same struggle with publicity that she was.

Spencer tilted his head in thought. "Your friend, whose birthday it is… will Harry Potter be there?"

She almost held her wand to his throat. She settled for a deep glare. "I don't know how you know that name," she hissed, "but he is a normal human being and you  _will_  treat him as such."

"I did some digging," he said, running a hand through his hair. She noticed it was longer than before, and felt stupid for it. "I found some weird stories in IRC logs associated with your name, and started cross-referencing unfamiliar terms from those with other…" he trailed off, probably realizing she had no idea what he was talking about. "Computer things. It would have seemed like a fantasy piece or the strangely organized ramblings of an insane person, if I didn't have the foreknowledge that I did."

"So no one else should be able to piece things together?" she asked weakly.

"Not without seeming like a conspiracy nut," he confirmed.

It was enough for her to convince herself that the Statute was in no immediate danger, and they spoke about the people he would meet while her heart rate went back down. She was pleased at what a quick study he was; her best friend should know the superficial details, after all: names of the Weasleys, a basic outline of her Hogwarts years, and a  _very_  cleaned-up version of her plan for the last year.

Grateful that Kingsley had mentioned lifting any Muggle-repellant charms, Hermione Apparated them to the very edge of the Burrow's grounds. Spencer Reid looked like he was holding back an urge to be sick, and she pulled him quickly through the wall of protective enchantments. Whatever pulse of magic he felt was enough to send him over the edge, and she patted his upper back gently while he leaned against a tree and vomited in the yard.

When he seemed done, she conjured a glass of water and held it out. He took it gingerly and stared at it with wide eyes rather than drinking it. She remembered that he was a physicist of some sort and laughed. His eyes darted up to hers. "What?"

"Don't overthink it right now," she said lightly. "I have some books you might enjoy later, but for now just take the water and try to get your wits about you."

He sipped it carefully. "I guess I  _am_  about to lie to a house full of magical war veterans. If they're all half as smart as you and Mr. Shacklebolt, I don't stand a chance."

She vanished the now-empty glass and sighed. "Fortunately for us, they're not all  _quite_  that clever."

When they entered the Burrow's living room, the entire room went silent for a moment.

Then, hell broke loose. Mrs. Weasley descended within seconds. How did they meet again? Spencer Reid -  _Spencer_ , Hermione reminded herself he was called - was much too thin, was he from America? How very interesting! Kingsley deemed it safe to leave him alone with the growing welcome committee and pulled Hermione away with a brief apology.

She found herself in the pantry, dimly lit and crowded with dry goods. "Speak," Kingsley demanded.

"I met him at St. Andrew's last year, just before the Death Eater attack." She said it all in one breath, and it felt like her heart was ready to burst out of her chest. "I got him out and I threatened him with a memory charm if he told anyone what he saw."

Kingsley's mouth opened, shut, opened again. She'd never seen such dark skin go so red.

"I couldn't do it," she said. Her hands found each other, and she twisted her fingers tightly. "I'd just sent my parents away, and he has so much raw intellect that I didn't want to mess around in his mind - I know it was wrong, but it will be okay. I will make sure it's okay," she added fiercely.

Kingsley's lips stayed pursed for another moment. Hermione's heart felt like it might beat out of her chest, but she kept her mouth shut and waited for him to say something.

"You're lucky I trust you," he said finally. She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She could have been in  _so_ much trouble, war heroine or not, if this got out. "The others need to know," he said. "He's a liability."

"The Order will know," she agreed (and readily), "but not today. No need to interrupt Harry's birthday with my drama."

He huffed, but it almost seemed good-natured.

When they found Spencer Reid -  _Spencer_  - again, he was explaining the origins of birthday candles to a small group of Weasleys. One, in particular, seemed to have taken a shining to him.

"But  _how_  would candles protect anyone from Dementors?" Percy pressed. "I see a metaphorical connection with the Patronus charm, something to do with light maybe, but practically speaking-"

"I see you're getting along well," Hermione interrupted, a smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

Spencer grinned broadly, his eyes bright. "There are some very interesting connections between classical Paganism and early wizardry - Percy's offered to lend me some books on wizarding history, but he said you might actually have a better working list than he would."

She resisted her body's instinct to blush. "I may have a few books you could use."

There was a loud snort, and she turned to see Ginny approaching, cradling a steaming mug of Butterbeer. "A few?" Ginny gave Spencer what was probably meant to be a meaningful look of some kind. "If Hermione hasn't heard of a book about something, nobody's written one."

Hermione rolled her eyes but let another smile play across her lips. "Just because someone knows how to use a library-"

"You're the only person I know who considered books a wartime essential," Ginny said, and nudged her with an elbow. She saw Spencer stiffen, as though he was expecting a negative reaction.

Hermione only sniffed. "They were useful. Now," she started, looking pointedly at Spencer, "how have you been faring so far? No spell damage, I see."

Ginny laughed, and Spencer even smiled self-deprecatingly. "Not for a lack of trying," he said. "George stopped by with some candy."

"He didn't take it," Percy assured her. "I told George to leave him alone for now."

"He should work on his approach," Spencer said thoughtfully. "He wasn't very subtle."

"He probably thought you were an easy mark," Hermione said, holding back a laugh. Annoying or no, it was nice to see George returning to himself. "Any other excitement?"

"He wished Harry a happy birthday, and Harry ran off," Ginny recounted. "Then Dad asked about his… what is it called again?"

"My pager," Spencer said, and pulled out the offending device. The back was off, and he appeared to have taken out the batteries. "It started going off pretty badly, and he got, uh, excited?"

"Sounds right," said Hermione.

"At least he didn't ask about rubber ducks," Ginny said wistfully. "You got away pretty easily."

Percy coughed gently. "Are we not going to talk about Ron's attempt at conversation?" He took a deep sip from his glass of wine while Spencer started sputtering and Ginny giggled madly.

"Do I want to know?" Hermione asked faintly.

"I'm going to have another piece of treacle tart," Spencer announced, and almost tripped over himself trying to escape so quickly.

Ginny, of course, only laughed harder.

"He seemed a little embarrassed when Ron started asking about his intentions towards you," Percy said, and Hermione wondered just how much he'd had to drink that afternoon.

Her gaze wandered to the kitchen door, through which she could see Spencer plating another piece of treacle tart. She hadn't realized how tall he was until she saw him standing next to George. "Spencer doesn't  _have_  any intentions towards me."

"Only because he thinks you wouldn't like it if he did," Ginny said. Although still a little breathless, she was able to speak now. "Honestly, would he be here if he didn't have  _any_?"

"An interest in a brand new, magical world does not equate to a non-academic interest in me." Hermione crossed her arms when this only set Ginny's giggling off again. "Both of you are drunk," she decided.

It wasn't much later before Hermione decided to sneak Spencer out of the party. "Let's get going," she murmured when she spotted him finishing a bottle of Butterbeer.

He told her where his hotel was, and thankfully, she'd been in the area before. She Apparated him to a spot that he said was about a ten minute walk away from it. "You can come with me - to talk, I mean."

She looked at him and fought back the words  _appraisingly_ or  _appreciatively_. Ginny and Percy were just getting to her.

They walked to his hotel in silence, and she was relieved when the first thing he did once the door to his room shut behind them was to dive into a messenger bag for a spiral notebook. "Please, sit." He gestured to the little loveseat shoved in the corner of the room. "I have some questions written down - in code, of course." He flipped to a certain page and handed the little yellow book to her. She eyed it for a moment while he settled into an armchair in a matching upholstery. She couldn't immediately decode it, and that was enough for now. She would offer to charm it later.

She handed it back, and Spencer just looked at her without saying anything. "Go ahead."

He jumped up and dug around in the bag again, this time pulling out a ballpoint pen. "You've already answered a few, or others did at the… Burrow," he said, making a few quick marks in the notebook and taking a seat again. "Is it all right if I ask some more?"

She smiled. The curiosity was something she could wrap her head around. "Go ahead."

The first few questions were impersonal.  _When do children discover they are magical? Is it common for people like me to have children who are magical? Where did this war come from? Why Harry Potter?_ It was almost a relief to talk about it all to someone who hadn't been raised with it, hadn't been stewing in this for the last seven years. She was reminded almost blissfully of her and Harry in their first year.

Then it started to get personal.  _How did you get so involved?_ It was a bit of a long story.  _What other memory wipes have you performed?_ "Memory charms," she corrected with a cringe.  _What is a mudblood?_ She barely stopped herself from scratching at her scar.  _Who is Fred?_

As though he sensed her unraveling, the questions turned more lighthearted again.  _Is there a difference between a witch and a wizard? A mage? A sorcerer? Are werewolves real? Why does Ron Weasley care about my intentions towards you?_ She snorted.  _Are bugbears real?_

Partway through a discussion of the (many) differences between House-Elves and Tolkien's elves, Hermione realized it was nearing midnight. "I should go," she said. "We can talk more soon, but I don't want to worry the Weasleys."

"Of course," Spencer blurted. "I didn't mean to keep you."

"You aren't," said Hermione stiltedly, standing and looking around the room at anything but Spencer. She felt like she was bumbling through this suddenly, like she was suddenly fourteen years old again. "Do you want to talk more in the morning?"

"Yes!" Spencer coughed and stood, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "I mean, yes, that would be great. Nice. That would be nice. Do you have a phone?"

She wrote down the number for his hotel phone and promised to call it the next day. She wasn't sure if she should hug him or just leave, and they exchanged a handshake that could only be described as "clammy."

When she arrived back at the Burrow, Kingsley was still there, chatting with Arthur in the sitting room over a game of chess. He raised his brows at her late arrival.

"Hermione!" Arthur exclaimed. "We weren't sure if you were coming back tonight!"

Kingsley smirked ever so slightly. "Did you have a nice evening with your  _friend_?"

If she blushed, she would never admit it.

* * *


	4. 1998: Northwest London

Hermione groaned at the letter in her hands and wordlessly summoned a quill and parchment. “A rain check on the take-out, Spencer?” 

His head popped up from his book, and ever agreeable, he said, “Sure, sure. What came up?”

“Mrs. Weasley wants the family together for dinner tonight,” she said dully, “says it’s been too long since she’s seen everyone.” She looked up from the reply she was scribbling out and locked eye contact with him. “You know she’s counting you as family, right?”

Spencer’s eyes widened a bit. “No, I did not. I’ll go, uh, put on a nicer sweater then.”

Hermione laughed, but it sounded tinny, and there was a pang of something in Spencer’s chest.

It wasn’t that he minded the plans shuffling around; he _liked_ the Weasleys, and they welcomed him into their home with open arms. He really didn’t mind, but it sometimes seemed that Hermione did.

He wasn’t sure if she even realized the ways that she was sabotaging her own healing. He could see that she was trying to move on, but every day was a struggle. It should have been two steps forward, one step back, but so much of the time it seemed like there were never any steps forward. The war was over, but she was continuing to sacrifice herself.

Only a week prior, they’d been ready to walk out the door for a matinee showing of _Lost in Space_ when the familiar sound of the floo flared and out came Harry’s voice, small as it echoed from the living room out to the hallway. “Hermione, what are you up to?”

Her face fell only briefly, but Spencer saw it. Then she’d bitten her lip and glanced apologetically at him before doubling back and kneeling in front of the fire. “I was about to head out, but if you need-”

“Oh, if you have plans, I-”

“Harry, it’s fine,” she’d insisted. “We can go another time; what do you need?”

He had _needed_ her to keep Luna company while the others played a pick-up game of Quidditch.

She was biting into her lower lip again as she’d looked up with resignation. There was a small sore there that she’d given herself that hadn’t healed in weeks. “Do you want to come, Spencer?”

“Sure,” he’d said, not knowing how to suggest otherwise.

Her friends were good people, but sometimes Spencer wondered if they knew what they were doing to her.

 

* * *

 

Staying with Hermione had started as a temporary thing. He was on her pull-out couch, neither pressing the attraction that they both knew the other felt. They knew that some people - Mrs. Weasley, namely - were concerned about two people so young (and so unmarried) “shacking up”, but they also knew that it hardly mattered what other people thought. They knew that nothing untoward was happening (and that even if it was, it wouldn’t be anyone else’s business). 

Back in June, when she’d started talking about signing her own lease on a little flat in Northwood Hills, he’d thought it was time for him to get a move on. Then one night, sitting alone together under a birch in the Weasleys’ yard, she’d whispered a very brief _Please don’t leave yet_ , and he hadn’t.

He’d told her that if she wanted, he would take a leave of absence for his fall classes. She’d told him that she didn’t know what she wanted. The registration deadline for the fall came and passed without either of them saying a word about it.

She’d been trying to take care of herself, he could tell.

She’d bought herself a dress that he thought accentuated every beautiful thing about her. It draped over her like a waterfall, all silky fabric and sensual curves. Weeks later, she wore it on a cloudy Sunday afternoon while they wandered around Muggle London, Spencer showing off his encyclopedic knowledges of the coffee shops and bookstores in the area.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and she blushed prettily.

They were due at the Burrow at five o’clock for tea and dinner, and she’d planned on changing, but they lost track of time and had to go as they were.

They walked in not quite hand in hand, although the backs of their hands were lightly touching.

“Hermione, what are you wearing?” Ron guffawed, and Hermione’s hands flew away as she crossed her arms in front of her.

“A _dress,_ Ronald,” she seethed. “In case you’ve somehow forgotten, I _am_ a woman.”

She hadn’t worn the dress since.

 

* * *

 

 

She tried painting, even though she was terrible at it. He learned what a “House Elf” was through her ranting while she painted a careful portrait of one, and then he was startled at the difference when a real one showed up when she called what may have been a name. 

“I made this for you, Winky,” Hermione said with a completely straight face. Spencer gathered that there was something happening under the surface here.

The House Elf, apparently called Winky, sucked in a huge breath and promptly started bawling. “M- M- Miss _Grangey!_ ” it stuttered through its sobs. Hermione was still, but her brows drew together in worry. She wanted to do something, he could tell, and he wasn’t sure why she wasn’t. This was a stark contrast to her impassioned words from before.

“Miss Grangey would very much like if Miss Winky took this portrait with her,” Hermione said slowly. “Miss Grangey will stop knitting hats and threatening clothes if Miss Winky will accept this… peace offering.”

Winky only sobbed harder, but threw herself (for now that Hermione had gendered her, it did seem obvious that she was a female) at Hermione and hugged as much of her as her tiny arms could reach. Hermione moved slowly, but wrapped her arms around the small House Elf and gave several small pats.

“Winky is being so very grateful,” Winky cried. “Will Miss Grangey do the same for the other elves at Hogwarts?” she asked hopefully.

“I can’t make them all portraits,” Hermione admitted, “but I promise not to try to free them, either. Unless they want to be, like Dobby,” she added hastily.

“This is being enough for Winky,” the little elf promised. “Is this all Miss Grangey is wanting?”

“That was all, Winky,” Hermione said. When the elf disappeared without a sound, she gave a great, heaving sigh. She looked up at Spencer, whose eyes were the size of saucers. “Have I ever told you about the time I tried to free an entire species from millennia of indentured servitude?”

 

* * *

 

 

She took many baths, something that she freely admitted she had never done before. “I never put much stock into anything girly, but it really does wonders for stiff muscles,” she explained over Indian take-out one day. “I also like using the scented candles,” she added after a pause. 

“I don’t mind you leaving me alone to think for a while.” Spencer realized that had come out wrong when she narrowed her eyes at him. “It gives me time to process all the strange things I’m learning,” he was quick to explain. “Sometimes I look over the notes that I’ve taken, try to organize them and relate things to one another. This is… stretching the limits of my capacity to learn. It doesn’t help that every time I expect something to have a reasonable Latin root, wizards just abandon that concept entirely.” He scoffed. “What kind of magic spell is ‘point me’, anyways?”

A small smile pulled at her lips. “A helpful one.”

It was one such night when it finally happened.

Hermione was in a bath. She had been for quite some time, but this was nothing unusual. Spencer was reading at the dining room table, papers spread about him like a tornado had gone through a library, when he heard a strange sound and froze. He listened for a moment longer before he recognized it for sure, and then jumped up, flinging papers off the table in his haste to run to the bathroom door.

He practically held his breath as he listened to her _sobbing_. He’d seen her cry before, small tears of frustration or when she remembered something that she didn’t want to talk about (she never wanted to talk about it), but he hadn't seen, or heard, her like this ever before.

He steeled himself for what could possibly go from bad to worse. He knocked on the door with three quiet raps.

He could hear her trying to stop; her heaving breaths turned into staccato gasps, and his chest hurt knowing that he was trying to hide this kind of pain. “Are you okay?” he asked, temple leaned against the cool wood of the bathroom door.

There were another few shaky gasps, and then a shaky, “I’m fine.”

He closed his eyes in frustration. “You don’t sound fine, Hermione.”

She was silent for a moment. He mentally decided that if she didn’t speak shortly he was going to go in, damn the consequences, and -

“I’m not,” she called. “Please come in.”

The door wasn’t locked, and he noted dimly that he wasn’t sure if she left it unlocked all the time or if she had unlocked it for him from the bath. Her wand was on the floor next to the tub, next to a neatly folded towel. It could have gone either way, he decided.

He shut the door behind him, unsure why.

Her hair was dry and large and frizzy, like she’d been running her hands through it the entire time she’d been in the bath. Her face was puffy and streaked with tears, and her eyes were calling out to him with something raw that he wasn’t sure he could identify beyond need. The tops of her breasts were peeking out from below bubbles that had to be magical, as they moved up and down without breaking as she breathed, sustaining her modesty. He decided she had unlocked the door with magic.

He went to the side of the tub and sat on the floor, offering her a hand. She took it gratefully, and they sat in silence for a little while, her hand hot and shaky in his.

“I don’t know what to do in the fall,” she admitted softly.

“What are your choices?” Spencer asked, noting the evenness of her breath once she started talking.

“I can be a student,” she started, “like Mrs. Weasley and Minerva want. Or I can go into the Auror academy, like Harry and Ron and Kingsley all want. I could go to the Ministry,” she added, speaking more and more quickly, “and work in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like Ron and Malfoy keep teasing and how Remus probably would have said I should, or-”

“What do _you_ want?” he interrupted.

Her eyes scrunched shut, and she took a few deep breaths to steady herself. “I don’t know.”

His other hand came up to rub the top of hers thoughtfully. “If you didn’t have to worry about what anyone thought,” he began carefully, “and you didn’t have to worry about organizing or planning anything, what would you do? With your free time, not just in the fall?”

Eyes still closed, she hummed wistfully. “I just want to read.” _What a surprise_ , he thought.

“What kind of book?”

Her eyes opened, and there was something new there, a fire that had been missing. “Arithmancy. Spell development. Theories of magic.”

“Which choice will let you do that most freely?”

She squeezed his bottom hand. “Going back to school. Maybe being an Unspeakable someday.”

He smiled tightly. “I don’t know what an Unspeakable is, but it sounds like you know what to do.”

She slouched deeper into the water, her knees coming up and out to compensate. “It’s not that simple.”

“It can be,” he assured her. “You are a strong woman, and you have more than earned the right to make a future for yourself, on your own terms.” His voice was laced with frustration that he hoped she knew wasn’t directed at her anymore. “If people can’t understand that, we can make them understand that.”

“They’re still hurting,” Hermione said, “it’s understandable that they want to build out of things that they’re familiar with, that bring comfort.”

“They’re not building,” he insisted. “They’re using you to heal with no attention for how it affects you. Why does everything have to be understandable? Why can't some things be unacceptable, and we just say that?"

“I suppose I can set some… limits,” Hermione murmured. “But the first time I have to tell Molly Weasley that I can’t make it to dinner on short notice, _you’re_ the one telling her it’s unacceptable.”

He squeezed her hand in his again, smiling at her half-joke. "I’m more than happy to be made into the villain here."


End file.
